


To be reborn crimson

by StarOverHeaven



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Crimson!Wilbur, Do not post this work to another site, Egg!Wilbur, Gen, eggbur goes brr, eggdad wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29344641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarOverHeaven/pseuds/StarOverHeaven
Summary: What if Bad resurrected Wilbur as a host for the egg?(What if he was no host, but maybe he could be something else for it instead?)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	To be reborn crimson

Wilbur knows something is wrong the second he feels it pulling. He feels as Schlatt sits up beside him, feels the comforting anchor of another sentient being pulling away, staring, and Wilbur opens his eyes. The void hums beneath them as the other ghost stumbles up from where they’d been sitting together, waiting for oblivion to fade them to nothing. 

Red blooms thick. Wilbur stares down at his chest as the twine loops around his wrists, plunging into the wound of his chest. The magic is… wrong. He can feel it pulling, surrounding the shattered glass orb of his soul like weeds. It tugs tight, and he feels warmth pool into his head like a pressure wave from a tsunami. His eardrums, if he’d had them, would have popped. 

It’s not the shining green and gold of Techno’s brief and incredibly temporary seconds of visitation, isn’t the deep grays and greens of Phil’s attempts with the ghost. It’s not the vivid steel gray and black of the book Dream had tried to use on Wilbur once in a blackstone vault, pulling him from the void to an unsuccessful existence where he’d been thrust back to the void again, head aching like an anvil had been dropped on it. It’s nothing like any of those, red and creeping and terrible like thorns blooming sharp in his lungs. 

Wilbur’s head shoots up and he meets Schlatt’s gaze. The void twists around them, red creeping in as vines grow in the wound, feast on the agony of Wilbur’s soul as deeply as they do on the flesh of the living. 

“Schlatt, go!” Wilbur hisses, and the other ghost vanishes before any of it can catch him as Wilbur screams, pain pooling deep as he’s pulled like a fish in a net away from the Void’s embrace. The void reaches, angry and desperate to keep the soul from escaping it, and Wilbur grabs at it desperately - 

His eyes open. Red surrounds him, and he can feel the heat of the vines as they grow deep into his skin. His head feels full, and there’s a strangeness to having a body again. He glances around, reds and glowing golds and oranges, and looks down at himself. 

He’s dressed in black and white, is the first thing he thinks. Then he realizes that no, it’s not all black and white and red, it's just that he’s wearing a long coat that’s like his own but dyed black to hide stains rather than the warm browns he preferred, no fluffy collar to push away the chill like the one he had. He can tell from a glance it’s not the same jacket - no patch of L’manberg on the left shoulder, the rips and stains gone, the scent of gunpowder nonexistent. 

**_.em nevig evah yeht tsoh lufituaeb a tahW_**

_I’m no host._

Wilbur lifts his head. The Egg hums in his head, disbelieving, and then he reaches out and _grabs -_

It screams. Bad crumbles in front of him like a domino alongside some of its other minions, his smile cracked away as the Egg shrieks in his head like a klaxon of a wartorn country as bombs fall to destroy everything. Wilbur considers it with dull, dead eyes. Eyes gone red, blackened and dark as he watches the egg shake and feels the vines under his skin _writhe._

_You’re mine,_ Wilbur thinks warmly to the shivery thing in his mind. It cowers, just some petty little thing that thinks it’s tough shit because it can control people. Wilbur plays the game so much _better -_ it’s nothing in comparison. How many people had he rallied without the cheatery of mind control to his side, how many soldiers had he commanded? He’d bent the two fiercest PVPers in the server to his side, and had controlled so many people with just his words. 

This little egg is nothing. It cowers to him in his own mind, consumed to him just as easily as any other person. He hums, reaching out mentally to stroke at the places he’s crushed it in his own mind to soothe it like it was a child. It reaches out, terrified, and he holds it so very gently. 

_It’s like a child,_ some part of himself murmurs. It really is. Tiny, hungry, when it could be so much bigger. A bit of discipline, a bit of comforting, and it could... 

It craves to spread. To become stronger. Some fatherly instinct in Wilbur, crumbled and crushed from being rejected in Pogtopia, unfurls. He wants to feed it, nurture it. Care for it, teach it in a way none of its little puppets ever could. 

Some part of him is furious. Furious to be alive, furious to be resurrected by people he doesn't know, furious to exist. Some part of him wants to go feral, wants to rip apart everyone in front of him for daring to interrupt what should have been a moment he’d have with family. Some part of him is _hungry,_ and only part of it is really him. The egg is _starving,_ thirsts to expand, and Wilbur feels it as though it is his own. He cradles it, as gently as he would a babe. 

_Precious,_ he thinks, and it shivers. It’s terrified of him, of the way he’d _reached_ and pulled the Void in his marrow, crushed it in his grip to discipline it. It’s a thrilling experience, in a way. He can feel the black emptiness pull at his bones as he stands there, his heart beating out of tune in his chest, silent and pulsing once or twice every few minutes like a dying thing struggling to exist. 

He breathes in, and feels warm air fill his lungs. The vines tingle beneath his feet, hot as freshly spilled blood and _hungry_ as they spread. The hunger aches in his belly, and the vines under his skin suck at the blood in his body eagerly for it. The egg rumbles as he considers Bad, crumpled in front of him, and licks his lips very slowly. The heat in the room is suffocating, and Wilbur bares his teeth. 

_Why?_ He thinks, and the egg shivers. To Wilbur, it is barely anything - a pitiful extension of himself. If there is anything Wilbur has, it is his strength of mind. The Egg is nothing. Pitiful, broken little thing that it is. _Just a child,_ he thinks, and his heart warms. 

_This is what you get,_ he tells it sourly, _for resurrecting someone stronger than you to host you._

**_yrgnuH_** , the egg rumbles back eagerly. 

_Stupid,_ Wilbur thinks back fondly. It really is just a child, a baby bird crying for food food food food - 

He thinks of Fundy, distantly. Warm orange fur and a grumpy face as Wilbur wakes in the middle of the night and lights a lantern to feed him, tiny grasping paws and a hunger that always faded straight back into sleepiness. 

The egg considers the memory with a strange detachment, repeating Wilbur’s words stilted and with a tone slightly off. **_dlihC?_**

Wilbur smiles despite himself, stepping forward. It’s more like a movement he’d make from Pogtopia, when he stalked the tops of the ravine with dark eyes and a lighter in his hand. A predator, stalking prey. Bad stumbles up, hand against his temple, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Hungry.” Wilbur repeats. Bad’s eyes light with understanding, and he offers - 

The steak is barely anything, but it takes the edge off the hunger. Vines grow up from the infested ground, latching onto Wilbur’s ankles and growing under his skin to take the offering. _It would be better raw. More blood. Living._

Wilbur considers Bad thoughtfully, head lifted and tilting slightly. The egg’s vocabulary is pitifully limited, and no doubt Bad had been struggling to figure out what fed the egg successfully. The steak would have worked for a while, when it was much younger and pitifully tiny. It had grown since, though - it needed _more._

“You’re looking well.” Bad chirps, and his smile is infectious. Wilbur smiles. 

“The egg is hungry, Bad.” Wilbur replies, avoiding the topic. He glances at the egg with a hum. “Living meat is better.” 

**_Doolb_** , the egg hums excitedly. Wilbur tries not to think about how much it reminded him of Techno fondly, and with a severe headache. 

“We know.” Bad promises, gesturing. Ponk blinks, and Wilbur considers him with a long look, debating the longevity of such a planned diet with deep doubts. Humans were… much harder to upkeep and get large numbers of. But maybe… 

"Cows." Wilbur offers plainly, looking at Bad and hooking onto the Egg's connection with him to share the idea. 

The egg _liked_ Bad. The demon was warm, fairly dedicated, and easy to control. So Wilbur trusted Bad. At least, as much as he trusted anyone - skeptically, with much doubting and general suspicion. 

Bad considers the idea thoughtfully with vibrant eyes, excited at the prospect. All of them feel the eggs hunger, and sating it even slightly would make them all much less grumpy. They would have more time to individually work, to spread… 

The Egg is excited, if a little confused. It hasn't seen living things except through the eyes of its little minions, and Wilbur offers his memories warmly as Bad turns to the other little minions to discuss the idea of bringing cows to the egg to test it. 

Cows. The way steak tasted rare, or raw - bloody and fresh, the texture of it. Milk, warm or cold. The way cows sounded, their grumpiness and sometimes rough affection when they butted their heads against someone's chest. The Egg hovers with uncertainty over the memory of tasting milk, confused where it had eagerly accepted the idea of meat. It's even more befuddled by the idea of animals having affection for people. 

Wilbur struggles to remember a pet he had had, and eventually offers the memories of Friend to the Egg as well. Warm wool, comforting to touch. The way Wilbur had relaxed around the animal, had become happier for its presence and grieved so very deeply when Friend died in the Doomsday War. 

The egg struggles to understand, incapable of so much emotional growth so quickly. Wilbur quickly backtracks, soothing the ruffled petals around the flower with his hand. Instead, he makes it more simple - _happiness is a good feeling, and sadness is a bad one. Having a pet makes you happy. That is good. That pet dying will make you sad. That is bad._

This is much easier for it to understand, but it doesn't quite understand why people do not qualify as pets, since they also can make you happy. This Wilbur struggles a bit more to put into words. 

Thankfully, he's saved from this conversation (temporarily) by the arrival of Bad, Ant and Ponk with some cows on leads. 

_This is a start,_ Wilbur thinks warmly to the shrieks of dying animals. Distantly, he considers Tommy. He should visit, make sure his little brother is okay, maybe... The egg rumbles, and his attention is dragged away as he coos at it, red eyes glinting in the dark room. 

_Yes, this is a start._

Fatherly instinct curls deep, twisted in vines of red. Protective, a feral grin of teeth and a craving for blood on his tongue. He thinks warmly of Fundy, when he was too small to do much of anything, and how he’d promised to destroy countries to protect his son. His son who… didn’t need him anymore. 

**_od I tuB_**

Wilbur grins, and accepts the netherite blade from Bad’s fingers as easily as though they were exchanging pleasantries over the weather. His heart once-still in his chest spasms, but he barely pays attention to it. There were more important things to think about, to _protect._

**Author's Note:**

> eggdadbur go brr  
> yes teach the egg how people work wilbur go  
> pog
> 
> also the idea that the egg would use wilburs fatherly instinct against him to control him for the angst bonus infuses me with the power of pain.


End file.
